


Break

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Surfers, F/M, Pro Sufer Gold, Surfer Girl Belle, waves and sharks and sea water
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the township of Torquay, Victoria, Australia, gateway to the Great Ocean Road - or rather on the beautiful shore of Bells Beach, a renowned surf spot – Belle French is a surfer girl who no longer surfs. Until, one evening, she does and the events following that decision leave her with more questions than answers and a reluctant new acquaintance, who might or might not be willing to help her unravel the knots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was hit with the idea of a surfers!AU and thought I had gotten it out of my system by making an aesthetic thingy on tumblr, but the thing blew up in my face and this is the result. I blame the lovely ladies on tumblr and welcome yet another WIP into the world. Enjoy!
>
>>   
>  **Break** , _noun._ Surf spot (where the waves break)   
> 

Scanning the beach, Belle checked to see if anyone was out for an evening walk. The beautiful sunsets often drew people down, but she saw no one. She felt her heart begin to race and her board slip from her grasp. _This is one of my favorite things to do in the world_ , she reminded herself as she gripped the board tighter. It felt heavier today. _I want this_. As she padded down, eyes fixed on the water and rough sand tickling her bare feet, she kept repeating the words in her head like a mantra, willing them to be true, to become her truth again.

The waves rolled in, each of them as strong and bold as the last. They came without fear of the beach, embracing the sand and shells without holding back. Belle walked until the water touched her feet and sloshed against her ankles. She dug her toes into the cold sand, the waves playfully licking them like cattle dogs, wagging their tails and welcoming her home, jumping up and barking at her in their excitement. But she didn’t feel at home. Not in the house. Not at the beach. And certainly not in her own skin. Not once did she gaze down at the water - and she didn’t smile. Instead, her eyes locked on the horizon and she allowed herself a moment to feel the coldness, hear the rhythmic crashing, taste the brine as much as smell it.

Then she ran, ran and threw herself onto her board with fierce abandon, paddling out to where it was deep. The water moved around her outstretched fingers in a passionate caress, eddying in their wake, opening its arms wide to pull her back into the fold, but she ignored its call and simply kept pushing on, propelling herself forward. She used to love the feel of the water on her body. Now, it rushed in like it owned her - and she wouldn’t have it. Panting, she stopped, her left hand on the nose of her board and her right arm dangling in the water, and she pulled out her hand, watching the drips and droplets fall from it, each one haloed by ever-growing rings that were quickly swallowed by the greedy, turbulent waters.

 _Raw Blue_.

In the breeze her body was cold, the setting sun’s fading light not enough to warm her.

Belle knew this wasn’t her best idea. Night surfing was reckless. Night surfing Winkipop, a very fast, down-the-line barreling wave that forced you to drive your board the top half of the wave at full throttle, would have been suicide. So she had decided to stick to The Bowl - the steep final section of the Outside Bells wave – for tonight. The timing was off, but what choice did she have? At least in the dark, the place wasn’t crowded – with wannabes and has-beens and everything in between. At least in the dark, no one would recognize her.

Bells Beach was one of the best surf peaks in Australia. Its sick as explosive right-hander seriously tested your rail game skills, but it had plenty of waves to offer for all levels of surfing, really, which made the spot so very popular. On a good day, all you had to do was run down the stairs, paddle out, and get lucky. Bells was a great teacher, the best she’d ever had. Whether it challenged her grit in twelve-foot waves or simply let her enjoy a two-foot surf, it made her learn something from every ride, allowing her to test out her attack strategies as she drew different lines from wave to wave, day after day. The faces were big and required a lot of strength to hold your carves off the bottom and off the top, but you were fine as long as you watched out for the tricky rip currents and stayed triangulated.

The wave at Bells was sloping and wide-based, strong but rarely hollow. Deep tube rides were rare. The break consisted of three surfing sections: Little Rincon - located to the south and needing a higher tide and a sub-six-foot swell, Outside Bells - the main break, a long, fast, evenly formed wall that began to take form when the surf was about six foot, and The Bowl – which would not wait for anyone’s mistakes before peeling down the line. Even though it looked really lined up, it was a hard wave to surf well, to put your turns in the right place, make it all flow, make it all look effortless, make you fly. It was one of those waves you had to put a lot of hours into to get deep and personal with, and Belle knew it like the back pocket of her shorts. Growing up, she had spent more time wet than she did dry - and it had made her strong, the chilly and powerful Southern Ocean steadily shaping her very core with a firm but patient hand, cutting her like the rough limestone cliffs that flanked the beach, like a smooth pebble in the sand.

As she straddled and balanced herself on the board in the open ocean, the waves came, transient, yet always there, rising, falling, rocking gently, nudging her and whispering in her ear. _Come, little Belle. Come and play_. They scattered the remaining light, the hue of the water ever changing yet always familiar, always blue. How could she fail to love them as they danced inward to crash on the shore? How could she fail to marvel at the air’s salty taste on her tongue, the cool kiss of the breeze on her face? They were constants, stalwarts, the pillars on which her life stood, present and passing, always the same and never. And yet, the taste turned bitter and the touch biting, and she felt the anger rise within her and draw back, right back, a black and blue line at the horizon.

And so she lunged forward, determined, spun her board toward shore and dug her arms deep into the water, straining to pick up enough speed, concentrating all her thoughts and efforts on her paddling. It was agony - and then it was bliss, the approaching wave gently lifting her up - but even then she didn’t stop, just kept right on paddling. Just over the reef below, the slope stood up straight and tall, growing beyond double overhead, and she felt the familiar pull of gravity as she and the board began to drop down the vertical face of the wave. _Now_ , she thought. _One wrong move and she would pitch head-over-heels with her surfboard into the trough of the wave, right into the eye of the storm, where all the power and energy was, and it would chew her up and spit her right out._ Without thinking, Belle pushed up with her arms and swung her feet up underneath her in one swift move.

And she was standing, victorious, feeling her board drop down the face further, the two of them moving diagonally across the wave now, partners in this thrilling dance they had worked so long and hard to get just right at exactly the right moment. How long this particular dance lasted depended entirely on her ability to turn, cut back, speed through fast-breaking sections and slow down enough for the lip of the wave to throw completely over her, tucking her in a dark cocoon for a moment, before spewing her out into the clear at the other end.

Tubing her, the enormous wave spun over her head - a black barrel, rare and powerful - and Belle felt the pleasure rush wash over her. The rush that made her crave it, that made her come back for more again and again, no matter how many times the wave played with her head and crushed her heart, broke her spirit and tortured her body. She grabbed the rail of her board and tucked herself as low as she could. As she shot through the liquid cavern in total darkness, she was all tingling skin and thundering heart, reduced to her basic instincts and stirred senses, and she just glimpsed the opening ahead, feeling the wave’s strength pulse and throb around her like thunder clapping and booming overhead during a violent storm. It was this, this precisely, which pulled her in and had her stuck and hung around no matter what. The power, dark and primeval, and the magic. The magic of a ride like this one.

Belle pumped her board for speed, but her exit was shrinking. She knew not to panic. Her muscles tensed and she braced herself for the inevitable wipeout. The wave sizzled and trembled around her, threatening to collapse right on top of her, but then it spat her out with the salty spray instead, and she flew out of the tube, nature’s deafening roar ringing in her ears.

Behind the waves and out of the impact zone, her fist shot into the air and she turned, pointing a finger at the waves. “You! -” she shouted over her shoulder. “Are rude! Giving me a fright like that.” She snapped her tongue.

 _Salt and seaweed and --- blood_.

Belle whirled around, but there was nothing but opaque blackness around her. Her head snapped back up. _Triangle, triangle - where was her beach, her cliff, her tree?_ She sucked in little breaths, her head starting to spin, and swallowed hard. _No fear_.

There was another dark swell in the sea, a bump coming rapidly toward her. Belle bit her lip and began to paddle hard, trying to reach that perfect spot, but, within an instant, she knew she was too late. The wave was magnificent, big and beautiful, like oiled slate glistening ominously in the darkness, and there was no escaping its silent wrath, as it surged in, threatening to destroy everything in its path. It was unbelievably strong, powerful, unstoppable. The water buzzed and whirled, and she paddled and paddled, but nature was faster and stronger and unforgiving, taking control and knocking her off her board, completely enveloping her and dragging her to the bottom.

The wave - rushing, racing, roaring; angry froth foaming from between its white lips – was yelling in her ears, grabbing her violently and shaking her, whipping her around like a rag doll, her body paralyzed with shock and fear. The salt stung in her eyes, her lungs, her breath coming out short and sharp in those stolen seconds she made it back to the surface, only to be pulled under again. Belle spluttered and coughed, her mother’s voice clear and calm in her head, cutting through the panic. Clear and calm, and a little bit concerned. She said, “If you're a beginner, don't paddle out in overhead surf; if you're an intermediate wave rider, don't try your luck taking on double overhead beasts. Otherwise, your bells might not ring again. When in doubt, don’t paddle out, Belle, promise me.”

The next wave took her and she resurfaced again, huffing bad, but only managed to take down a mouthful of foam before she got hit again, the whole set washing over her and flogging her on the head.

So the damn water had bested and claimed her at last. It entered, cold and rough, stealing away the air that could have saved her suddenly fragile body. She could taste it, like a dirty stream in her mouth and nose, foul fish rotting in the sun. Her limbs were moving, her mind losing focus and all sense of direction. _Fight_ , she thought. _Fight it harder! To the beach!_ She needed her head to break the surface before her strength left her for good, needed her movements to be calm and calculated, so as not to waste any more precious energy and make it to the beach, but her wild survival instincts had kicked in and the struggle was futile.

She had grown up in Torquay, and every time the swell got over eight feet, most of the guys wouldn’t paddle out. Bells was a fat wave that was only good for stand up surfing, Winki being much better for bodyboarding, but both had some nasty reef, which was what she was being repeatedly smacked against now, the wave bouncing her off the coral bottom, and her arms flew out on instinct to protect her head as she whirled around and upside down, like someone had pulled the plug in a giant bathtub of dead, foamy water, which was so carbonated it was hissing.

The water enveloped her like a second skin. Every new sore, cut and bruise stung from the salt being washed in. Belle gasped and winced, the water burning in her throat and lungs as it swirled without mercy, penetrating to the cells that should have been protected by layers of smooth skin, but were now lying open and raw. After the initial surge of pain, it ebbed a little and she almost enjoyed the newfound confused weightlessness for a while, before the thought _I might drown_ entered her mind and had her renew her efforts to get back to the surface.  

When she had first fallen beneath the waves, she had expected to come back up, and she had. But chances to breathe were growing further apart, each breath less than the one before, and somehow, before she went under yet again, she knew in her heart that this time would be the last, and that today had been the very last day she had ever been kissed by the sun. The current took her once more and held her down for a long time. She strained for the light that was barely visible above, but she was too deep, too slow, too far gone already.

Something slammed into her then, and hard, catapulting her mind backwards and jerking her out of her dejected stupor, and suddenly, she was as sharp as a tack. The fog in her throbbing head had almost completely cleared and she pushed upwards in a long, desperate stroke. A shape moved. Big and dark and very, very close. Belle came up, finally, choking on salt and red rust, and she did not have to ask.

  _Shark_.

She couldn’t make out any of the details, but the blur moved and a brutal strike hit her left side – a jarring impact, a strange pressure, a couple fast tugs at her middle that were dragging her under. She shrieked, the sound shrill and panicked, wet and blowing bubbles, and she ended up with another mouthful of the ocean, the metallic taste undeniable this time.

Miraculously, only a few feet away, her board popped up and she made for it, struggling to break free, her arms and legs paddling frantically. Yet she could barely keep her head above the surface and she couldn’t get to it, try as she might, so Belle screamed again, throwing everything she had into the next attempt to shake the predator off. _Why couldn’t she swim?_

Sharks were no monsters. They would simply mistake a surfer on his foam board for a fat, tasty seal, what with the limbs dangling so alluringly and invitingly in the water. They were on its turf, invading, trespassing. The animal didn’t mean to seek you out to harm you, but when it had you, it would not let go. Sometimes, a shark came back time and again, once it had – quite literally – gotten a taste of you.

Belle whimpered and retched, the water around her turning thick and ruby-colored in her mind’s eye, and she wailed, throwing herself forward as her board swung toward her, and grabbed hold of it, struggling to pull herself on top. _Something was wrong with her left arm. She could not feel her arm. Why couldn’t she feel her arm? And why was there no pain? There should have been? She had to stay calm and paddle to the beach. Now. Just --- get to the beach,_ her mind screamed, while the actual scream was locked deep in her throat. _Get to the beach, get to the beach, get to the beach. The … beach. Beach_.

The sound of carnage still rang in her ears. She remembered how the wall of water had plummeted onto their boards - knocking hers right out of her hands - and curled back, then thrashed against them again and again; a merciless beast of nature that would stop at nothing until it had succeeded in leaving everything in shambles in its wake. She remembered the way the water had reflected the fear in her eyes, and heard herself shriek as they raced for the shoreline. She was paddling next to her. There was fear in her eyes too, but she was trying to hide it. The wave cried out a bloodcurdling howl overhead and collapsed on top of them, and they were swept along with the wreckage. She caught a glimpse of a fleshy stump, a bright red trail in the water, and forced her eyes away. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t happening. _What was going on?_ Something hit her hard, and her world faded into something blacker than black, whiter than white, another flash of blue and red, and then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Land at last. As they got close, he got off his board and pushed her the last few feet to the beach. He lifted her off the surfboard and laid her on the sand, checking her breathing and her pulse. Her airway was clear. He didn’t have to resuscitate. She was breathing but still mostly out, hanging on by thin thread only, and she kept coming in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay afloat and to make heads or tails of what was going on. He removed her rash guard, carefully and gently, then took off his leg rope and tied it around her upper arm like a tourniquet.

 _Foolish youth_.

The girl was a tiny, petite thing. Covered in bumps and bruises, cuts and slices from her head down to her toes, however, she was not a pretty sight. By the looks of it, she had gotten worked, taken quite some dirty lickings and, as she fell mercy to the turbulent, frothing white, had been forced to take whatever brute force nature had decided to hurl at her out there, the black sets rolling in like war drums and taking no prisoners in the name of their Gods. The sea did not discriminate. It didn’t forgive. It only took.

He looked down at her bruised body, her small, pale face. Shook his head. The rugged rocks and the reef had simply done what they did best. She should have known better. She had lost blood, was still bleeding from several cuts, the sticky moisture oozing, but - thankfully - not gushing, trickling down into the cold, grainy sand - slow and heavy and salty, like tears. His hand felt obscenely hot and large on her shoulder. There was no telling how severe the damage truly was. Not here. Not simply from looking at her. There was always the dangerous possibility of internal injuries.

“Little Miss,” he spoke softly, the compassion in his voice an unexpected undercurrent, a balmy stream, winding its path through the gelid darkness between them. “Miss!” His fingers curled around her slim wrist again, and he waited for the reassuring thuds to come. The faint rhythm that meant she was still with him. He leaned a little closer to check her face, sand grinding under the shifting weight and breaking his skin, biting into what was defenselessly pulled taut and stretched thin over his kneecaps. _Sand, sugar, grains_. It always made him wince. It always made him feel guilty. He pushed the sensation away, focusing on her fluttering eyelids, her slightly parted lips.

 _Nothing_.

He tried the key pocket. His fingers came away empty but for a small silver key, nearly weightless on his palm and so thin, it was almost translucent. _A locker perhaps, a bicycle_. He didn’t know what he had been expecting to find - _a name maybe, a phone number_? He had a carphone, but wouldn’t leave her behind on the beach, unconscious.

Without looking up, he felt the cliff-top car park’s eyes on him as he returned the key, the dark, deserted place looming high above, towering over the two of them, sitting enthroned on the forbidding coastline, waiting, looking on, holding its breath. Even the surf had hushed - a sudden lull in the angry _swish-clash-swish_ behind him telling him as much - and the noise quelled to a strained, ominous whisper that made the hairs on his tired arms stand on end. _He couldn’t carry her._  

He felt his anger rise within him, the heat turning to cold fury and white steam clouds in his chest as it clashed with the chilling worry that had taken up residence between his ribs, lodging comfortably, like a parasitic thorn in his side. It glared at him with big reproachful eyes, gnawing on his bones and clawing at his heart. A sharp, pointed sting that reminded him of all the big and small ways in which he had failed - not her, not yet - but _others_ , and ultimately, himself.

 _What had she been thinking_?!

There wasn’t much _beach_ at Bells Beach, it was mostly a glorified cliff-face. The exposed reef and point break had consistent surf, although summer tended to be mostly flat. Ideal winds were from the northwest, groundswells more frequent than wind swells and the optimum swell angle usually from the southwest. Bells was best around mid-tide when the tide was rising. Then it would be a zoo. A crooked line of black dots - bodies and boards - bobbing in the line-up like fat, glistening flies. Then he wouldn’t be here. He preferred the night, the silence, the solitude.

She stirred a little. “I want my mum!”

A wet, broken little croak, rasping and rattling, unkind air pressed into urgent words of fear and confusion. He looked around. They were the only two people here.

She had disturbed his peace and quiet tonight. At first he had thought it a silly stunt. Young surfers often underestimated the water and overestimated their ability to dominate it. Which, of course, was all wrong. The sea wasn’t to be dominated, but had to be understood and treated with respect. That required still, and calm and patience, qualities which the boastful oafs on their flashy shortboards usually lacked. They couldn’t keep still, they couldn’t keep quiet, and they most certainly didn’t stop to think or listen. They just _went_ and _did_. Once upon a time he had been one of them.

 _Tonight_ , he had realized his mistake, but almost too late.

_The water was deep right off the beach, he knew, and he didn’t hesitate. He bolted down the steps and raced into the cool blackish-blue at once, all thought of injury and his nightmares forgotten. The girl --- was drowning._

When he had reached her, she was out of it already, trashing about in her blind panic with no more mind than a cornered animal, all sharp nails and raw instincts. He had tried talking her down, but whatever had spooked her, left no room for reason, and so he had gripped her around the middle, jerked her board loose and pushed her on top of it. He was a decent swimmer, but she would have drowned them both.

She had said, “I want my mum!” a few times, and asked for water. Now she was silent. And her silence worried him. He examined her head, making sure to support her neck and keep it steady. More bruises and cuts, but nothing that needed stitches, as far as he could tell. Nothing deep. He waited.

She groaned, “water, --- the -- _water_ ,” and rolled onto her side, starting to cough, water streaming out of her nose and mouth as she came to.

“Easy now, easy,” His hand was on her shoulder again, steadying, anchoring. _Salt water made you thirsty_. “I know you’re thirsty,” he said. “But you might need surgery and want an empty stomach. You got pummeled pretty bad.”

The words took a long moment to reach her - or maybe they didn’t at all.

She gasped, coughed up more water. “Shark!”

His face fell faster than vomit. _Ah. Well, then they had both gotten bloody lucky tonight_. He quickly glanced at the water over his shoulder, unease growing in the pit of his stomach, and drew back a little, his hand slipping from her shoulder, sliding down her arm, and finding her hand to hold on its own accord. “It’s alright. We’re out of the water. You’re safe.” He reassured her.

Her eyes found his.

“You all right?” he asked.

“... trying to get out of there,” she mumbled, and a shudder ran through her like lightning, sizzling into the sand at her feet. “What happened?” Her free hand found her face and she winced at her own touch. Bumps, bruises and reef rash came with the territory, but this would take her a while to bounce back from.

“Careful,” he cautioned. “Severe wipe-out. We need to get you looked at.” He examined the wound on her arm again and pulled on the make-shift tourniquet, getting absolutely no reaction from her. “Sorry, best I could do for the moment. How’s the pain level?”

She pushed his hands away, sitting up too quickly and turning sideways, bend double, a hand on her belly, her body heaving, convulsing, shivering. “I-I’m okay.” She pushed the words past her trembling lips with great effort, took a couple deep breaths, and coughed again. “ _Fine_. Just gotta -”

Whatever it was that she _had to_ , she didn’t, just froze in her pitiful position, a pained expression on her face. _Nonsense_. This was not the time to play the hero. “Listen, if you’re okay here for a spell, I’ll dash to make a quick call. Get proper help -”

“No!” The protest was immediate and vehement and, in her haste to stop him from getting to his feet, she nearly toppled over and tumbled right into his lap. _Jesus_.

“Jesus, _settle down_ ,” He patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort as she white-knuckled through fresh waves of nausea and badly-concealed pain. _The girl clearly wasn’t in her right mind_. “I don’t care much for being indicted for negligent failure to render assistance, Miss,” He sat back on his heels, but maintained the steadying grip on her shoulders as she rode another violent coughing fit through to the very wet end. “Is there anyone I can call?”

He didn’t say _your parents_ , though he had noticed how very young she was. Perhaps she was afraid of getting in trouble at home. Well, reckless idiocy like hers shouldn’t go without consequence and she deserved it for nearly getting herself killed, but at present, he was far more concerned for her health than for any hypothetical repeat offences. She was a hazard in the water, chumming for trouble, and needed to get her bum back to surf class to cover the basics properly, water safety and common sense alike.

“No!” She glared at him, face flushed and eyes watery. “Just gimme a minute, I’ll be out of your hair in a sec.” She squirmed, but he wouldn’t let go.

“You lost blood,” he informed her and, searching her face, willed his eyes and words to drill some sense into her thick - and, no doubt, spinning - skull. She was distressed or in shock and not thinking straight. He shouldn’t take it personally. “Bad idea.”

She stiffened, her eyes turning from turbulent water to hard rock.

“What the hell were you thinking, surfing in that deadly soup anyway?!” he asked, raising a brow at her, his head nodding in the direction of the sea. “At night. Alone.”

Her lip twitched, pink tongue darting out to wet it. “None of your bizzo!”

He quickly squeezed his eyes shut, quelling the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. _He would never get used to that damn drawl, would he? Broad, nasal and straight off a beer ad._ “Maybe not, but you should take better care of the rips here, you know. Unless you happen to have a death wish. In which case, I’m truly sorry for having gotten in your way tonight.”

Deflating, she mouthed like a fish, then wrenched herself free and staggered to her feet without another word - and without thinking.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded calmly, watching her sway and stumble to find a foothold. _Idiot girl_.

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

 _She was a mess. And on his hands. He should have stayed at home, watched the game, and let her drown_.

“Going home,” she rasped, giving her face a vicious wipe-over with the back of her hand. She was shaking like a leaf.

He looked her up and down slowly, then said, “I don’t think so,” and, just as he had expected, her legs would not support her weight. They buckled and collapsed underneath her. With a sigh, he threw out a well-timed arm to break her fall. That earned him more angry red marks. She needed to trim her fingernails. He guided her back down to sit on his board.

She blew out a frustrated breath. That almost made him laugh.

“Well, since I must fear you bailing on me and making a run for it, if I so much as turn my back on you for a split second,” he began, unable to hide the sarcasm. “What are you suggesting we do instead? Sit here and wait for the world to stop spinning?”

“Yeah,” she said and wrapped her arms around her legs, bringing them in closer and resting her chin on her knees to shield her body. He looked at her closely and thought he saw her blush then, but it was hard to tell in the dark and from the sorry state she was in - even if she was only inches away. “You don’t have to wait with me,” she said, breathing the words onto her skin and refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead as she spoke. He shook his head.

“Oh, but I will,” He planted his feet firmly on the ground to signal he meant it. No matter how badly he wished otherwise, he was stuck with her. “Until you see reason. And can make it to the car without collapsing on top of me.”

She groaned and buried her face against her knees, covering her head with her arms.

He gave a small chuckle - at which her head snapped back up and round at him, her eyes flashing dangerously. _What a temper. Annoying. And such a waste of energy._

“I’m no kook!” She rubbed her arms furiously. The breeze was mild, but he had to get her to the car and someplace warm and safe _very_ soon. He much rather, he didn’t have to do it dragging her kicking and screaming the entire way up the stairs, though. 

“Taking on Bird Rock next, are we?” he scoffed.

“Maybe!” she shot back, cleared her throat, and winced. _Yeah, gallons of seawater weren’t all that gentle on your vocal chords_. His lips quirked in a dark, hard smile. As she was regaining her senses and strength, he was losing his patience, and it was getting late. The girl had some nerve being so _effing difficult_. She and her precious board would have shared an early grave at the bottom of the sea, if he hadn’t happened by and dragged them out. 

“Not with that board, you’re not,” He pointed at the wreckage in the sand: shattered left rail, snapped topped section - the front third, the fiberglass hanging by threads - and the stringer broken clean through. He thought about his body on top of hers, paddling them into shore. “Besides, it’s _experienced locals only_ , dearie.”

“I know _that_ ,” she spat, pointing a finger first at her chest and then at him. “But I’ve never seen _you_ out there!”  

Let her flaunt her localness to her heart’s content if it helped any, but he wasn’t impressed and wouldn’t take the bait. She had no idea who she was talking to - talking _back_ to - and he was more concerned with the nasty cut that he had spotted under her arm anyway, to bother with her nasty words and lack of manners right now. He shrugged out of his shirt and wordlessly wrapped the wound, feeling around her to tie it with a knot at her other side. It wasn’t much, but would have to do until he could get the first aid kit from the car. She flinched and jumped, sucking in a sharp breath and letting it out in a strangled, high-pitched squeak of surprise and bewilderment, as he poked around to make sure it would hold.

“No, dearie, I’m sure _you_ wouldn’t have,” he said, feeling her quiver under his touch and pull back to put a bit of distance between them. She faced away from him. The unspoken jab at her age and inexperience was implicit, but not lost on her, and it hung thick and heavy in the salty air. It was the truth and the truth hurt. That wasn’t his fault.

They sat for a long moment.

“ _Faark_ ,” she breathed suddenly, letting herself fall forward onto her hands and knees, and scrambled over to the remains of her board. Her voice was small and thin - a wafer moon in the night sky, full and round with cloaked emotion, but very unsubstantial. It would not last long. “That _faarken_ shark! No! _Faark_ it!” A swell of emotion, from flat to heavy and large in a split second, rocked her words, her voice waning and breaking, fast and hollow waves running high and rushing toward shore. He knew that ride. It felt like exploding out of a cannon.

“I’m sorry,” he said, attempting to pour oil on troubled waters - which, however, turned out to be bushfires, the flames flaring up in her eyes as she rounded on him.

Sitting in the damp sand, silent tears streaming down her face, she opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out were strangled noises, before she broke down into angry sobs that shook her small frame. She was fighting the fire and the tears, her jaw working furiously and her teeth clenched so hard, he feared she might crack them.

He watched as she cried and cried, calm and keeping aloof, pushing at the emotion and impulses that were tugging at him, urging him to move. _It was her own fault_. Perhaps that would teach her not to bite off more than she could chew and get herself killed choking on it.

She sniffed pitifully, miserably slumped over her board, and it peeved him to find that the pathetic display before him was more than he could bear. “I know a guy,” he heard himself say, the voices in his head yelling at him to shut his gob. “A shaper who owes me a favor or two. Wanted to swing by and drop off one of mine anyway. Get a couple dings fixed. He can do yours while he’s going.”

She looked up at him, sucking air through the small gap in her front two teeth. With her large blue eyes, her heart shaped face, and the mane of dark hair that framed it - slightly curly from drying in the breeze - you could see the beauty she was, underneath all the fresh black, blue and purple that would soon turn into inverted galaxies of yellow, green and grey. She hiccuped a few breaths.

Her face was a mess - tears and blood and dirt - but she seemed not to notice or care about wiping it off, letting the muck stream over her chin and drip down onto herself and seep into the sand, where it vanished.

They looked at each other.

He leaned forward and reached out a hand - to do what with, he wasn’t sure - and that was when she scrambled to her feet and hurried off.

“Hey!” he called after her, too stunned and surprised to do anything more but watch, as she zig-zagged the beach like a drunken hare, ran up the dune, and the hell away from him. Her slip-sliding steps on shaky legs appeared even more unsteady in the soft sand, and had him hold his breath in worry and fear for her safety. _Stupid, stupid girl. She would break her neck and make him watch the entire, unpleasant ordeal_.

Frozen in some shocked stupor, he only let out the breath he had been holding, when her dark shape reached the car park. _Well_.

He sat on his board and listened to the surf. Perhaps he should go - go look for her, or simply --- _go_. He got up, ran a hand through his hair, dazed, mildly confused and irritated. Then he crouched down next to her board, poking at it, his stiff legs protesting painfully. _What on earth had gotten into her?!_ He looked up and around the beach, but she was long gone. It was dark and he was tired.

Leaning in and then back, he pulled her board out of the sand, the snapped section dragging as he staggered to his feet in the movement. He unfastened the leash and tossed it aside. She would need a new one anyway, hers being all tangled and nearly snapped in two. He carefully placed her board on top of his own, gathered them up and tucked them under his arm to carry them up the dune and the stairs to the car.

It was only then, in the bright floodlights of the car park, and after he had checked his surroundings for any sign of her - just to make sure- before loading the boards into the back, when he carefully turned them over and, running his fingers down the cornflower blue belly, noticed the lettering written along the stringer near the tail.

 _For Colette 6' 1”. 18¼. 2 ¼_ \--- in pencil. _Custom-made_.

Gold whistled through his teeth. The name didn’t suit her. He had trouble matching it to the girl from the beach. And her board would never be the same - once they were broken they never handled the same weight again - but she’d still get some use out of it. He would make sure of that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forever and a half. I just can't write about beaches and surfers when the ground is covered in snow and I'm freezing half to death. Well, spring is back and so is this story.

Friday night. High tide. Swamped with customers, the _Crazy Sea Horse_ buzzed and hummed with conversation and laughter.

Waves of new people, impatient and ravenous, kept rolling in from the street in sets of 3, 5, 10 at a time - tourists and locals alike - expecting to be seated and fed _immediately_ , even when it was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a working brain that the place was overcrowded already and threatening to burst at the seams at any moment.

Everyone, their grandmother, and the dog had apparently decided that tonight was the night to be out and about. It was good for business, of course, to be expected even - on a warm spring night like this. But the crowds - how they swarmed the streets, the beach, the pubs, like hungry, flashy bees, wasps, hornets - they made her angry and her head sting.

Plating up her next order, Belle zigzagged ketchup and hollandaise on poached eggs and fries with more vigor than would have been strictly necessary, then placed the hot plate under the heating lamp and dinged the bell.

The sound cut through her like a cold steel knife.

Her head hot and humming low, she didn’t wait for the plate to vanish, but went back to chopping up onions and herbs straight away, her eyes fixed on the next batch of eggs on the stove. There was no time for a loo break - or a nervous breakdown.

Their dock printer had run out of paper over half an hour ago, but she couldn’t have made it to the office and back to her kitchen in time - unless she cloned herself first. Ignoring the intermittent high-pitched beeping and her full bladder, Belle pushed through the chaos and backlog of queued up orders, holding her breath and crossing her legs.

The never ending string of demands bellowed through her little window rang in her ears and made her hands tingle. Juggling her pans and pots, bowls and knives, a cloud of steam and spices filled her face and crept deep into her lungs.

Turning her head and ignoring the sharp pain in her neck, Belle stopped to cough into her arm, then straightened her back and tightened her grip on the slippery handles.

“Madness!” Will dumped the dirty dishes on the floor, yanked open the dishwasher, and pushed them inside.

Bussing was the pits. But even bussing on nights from hell didn’t stop this guy from whistling Nova’s latest hits as he went about his cheerful business.

“ _Behind_ ,” he added - after a beat and as an afterthought - as though she hadn’t already felt him bustling about behind her, and wasn’t feeling his eyes linger on her now either, his easy smile prickling hot and rough on the back of her neck.

 _Sand and golden honey_.

Belle stiffened and turned, her best plastic smile in place.

His face fell a little before he caught it mid-drop and hastily rearranged his expression. “Shit, Peaches. You okay?”

 _Plum, not peach_.

She held his gaze.

“Busy, sweaty, greasy.” _Smiling was tedious. Why did people do it?_ Belle wiped her hands on her apron. “The usual.”

The way he was watching her - carefully, cautiously, searching, but not asking - not out loud anyway, made her suddenly awfully _aware_. Aware of her body, and what it might tell him, what it might tell the world about her. And in that moment, she hated him for it.

“Need a hand? --- Or five?” He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder. “That smells divine.”

She could see the question forming on his face before he asked it.

“How about we share a plate out back later?”

Belle wanted to tell him no. Tell him there was no time. Tell him she’d used her break already.

“Alright,” was what she said instead, hands brushing her hair away from her sticky forehead under her cap, her thoughts safely bubble-wrapped and tucked away for later. ‘ _Yes’_ was so much easier than no. ‘ _Yes’_ meant no further questions asked and no more lies told. Lies she had to keep track of.

“Or, I could make you some now-” she began, hopeful, but he cut her off with a grin and a soft shake of the head.

Cold sweat trickled down her spine.

“Nah, I’ll wait for you. Got more rounds to make.” Stepping backwards, he tapped his cap and pointed at the roaring dishwasher. “People are pigs.”

“Yeah. And you’re their dish pig.”

Salty grease burned on her cracked lips as she ran her tongue over them. It only made the burn worse.

He laughed, picked up an empty crate. “In a few, _chef piglet_.”

The door swung shut behind him, and Belle exhaled through her nose. “Right.”

Orders kept coming, kept her on her feet all night. She had to go with the flow, think less and move quicker, but her mind was elsewhere and she wasn’t fast _enough_ , which earned her another nasty burn across her palm.

 _The smell of burned flesh_.

Belle barely flinched and carefully lowered the heat. A few blisters were no excuse for a ruined meal and a dissatisfied customer.

Not that it mattered, she thought, poking at a blister with the index finger of her other hand. What was another scar anyway? She put her palm under cold running water and covered it with a more-or-less clean dish towel wrap after. From the neck down, there was hardly any part of her that _wasn’t_ scarred. One more wouldn’t make a difference.

She had once read a story where your life got tattooed onto your skin, all your small victories and big mistakes out there for everyone to see forever, and the thought hadn’t scared her then, seemed strangely romantic even - in that edgy kind of way that made her heart beat faster. She had gotten her first kiss that summer. Days were bright and endless.

The night went on, her shift ended. Will hadn’t come back to make good on his promise.  Sometimes - when they were working the same shift, and he was behind the bar - he fixed her a coffee. Chocolate mocha. Without asking. And she took it wordlessly - for it would have been rude not to - paying in fake smiles and polite nods.

She didn’t have any friends, and neither did she want them, but a cup of coffee every now and then was innocent enough. It didn’t mean anything. A hot drink in a paper cup was just that.

Belle untied her apron, balled it up, and threw it on the laundry pile in the back. 

In the beginning, she had always made sure all her orders were complete, dishes and laundry done, and her kitchen up to code. She would have grabbed clipboard and sharpie, and headed into the cool room, checking every pasta container, homemade sauce, and pre-made dessert, and replacing everything that wouldn’t have passed a surprise health inspection. She had been happy staying past closing time, by herself, when the Sea Horse was quiet and the lights low, following instructions from the manual, adding her own little twists to the trusted recipes and enjoying the still and calm in her head.

She hadn’t made rounds or looked at the manual in a while. So far they hadn’t had any complaints.

Belle took off her cap, pulled off the blue bandana she had been wearing underneath to keep the sweat away from her face, and freed her hair from the elastic hair tie where she'd scraped it back into a ponytail earlier - to run her fingers through it and comb out some of the grease.

“Hey, Peaches!”

Belle flinched so hard the jolt ran up her arms and caused a painful pileup between her shoulder blades.

“Sorry.” Will eyed her through the window, one eyebrow raised. “Didn’t mean to startle ya. Uh---” He blinked. Belle saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “A bunch of us are going to Nana L’s to grab a bite. Want to come? You could ride shotgun with me or hob in with Rob - if you don’t mind the detour. He’s picking up Mar first.”

Belle’s heart raced. Had it jumped out of her chest and made a run for it, it would have beaten them there. She clasped her hands together in front of her body, pressing down on the dish towel and concentrating hard on taking slow steadying breaths - in through the nose, wait seven seconds, then out of the mouth again - while making it look like she was simply taking a moment to think about it.

“Some brekkie would be great!” Her voice was thick as pancake batter, the enthusiasm in it oh so sweet, but sticky like gum and gluing her jaws shut. “Oh. No. Wait. It’s Saturday.” Belle cast her eyes down apologetically, biting her lip, and then releasing it with a soft popping sound. “Arianna needs the car on Saturdays. Next time?”

“Sure.” He looked disappointed for a second, but rallied in the next, and gave her a radiant smile.

In another life, she would have liked everything about that smile: The way it seemed to start in his eyes rather than touch them last, turning bleak brown into warming chestnut. The way it revealed his very white teeth, stark contrast to thick eyebrows and tanned skin, and made him look like summer spent someplace exotic (although he was a Brit). How his dimples deepened, and the tips of his slightly protruding ears blushed - even when his cheeks did not.

“Sorry.” Belle said, and part of her actually was.

She wasn’t that girl anymore, though, and her clenching stomach and closing throat wouldn’t have allowed any other answer but ‘no’ to get past her lips.

“No worries,” Will said. “See you Monday then?”

“Yeah.”

“If you change your mind-” He winked at her, held up a hand in farewell, and vanished from sight.

Belle heard him wish Leroy and Ashley good morning on his way out. His footfalls faded away. She was alone again, shivering in her black cotton shirt despite the stale humidity in the room. Alone with her heartbeat in her ears, and ants crawling up her legs. Alone, but for the distant sounds of chairs scraping on linoleum, the hurried swish-swashing of mops pushed back and forth across it - and clanking against table legs ever so often, and the little radio blaring out the same ten songs over and over again as people across town started their day, brushing their teeth, drinking their coffees, and taking their kids to school.

Spring was almost over, days were getting warmer and warmer. Soon schools would be out, and the beach would be packed with children, families, and tourists. Not that she intended ever going back there again. Not after last night. Not without her board.

 _Her mother’s board_.

Belle punched her own forearm hard. How could she have lost it?! It had been such an idiotic, reckless thing to do. She knew she was lucky to be alive, but it didn’t feel that way.

Christmas was fast approaching, and the thought alone made her yearn for the dark void at the bottom of the sea.

It was warm at Christmas time. She used to wear shorts and t-shirts almost all year long.

Belle tugged on the sleeves of her shirt, pulling them over her hands, and blinked away the blurry spots until the wall tiles were separate squares again and she could count them, starting at the top left corner and making her way down to the bottom right - where tiles met counter and appliances. Various utensils and kitchen helpers forced her to guess more than once, which made her a little uneasy.

She had been slammed by her board and was one big bruise. Not a pretty sight. Not to mention the old scars and fresh cuts. They wept and itched underneath her clothing, stuck to the fabric, and drove her insane. Nobody would have guessed it, though. Belle made sure of that. Heavy duty makeup covered up all traces on her face, and her baggy pants and loose-fitting shirt did the rest.

When she woke up, it had hurt so bad that she had almost stayed home. Calling in sick wasn’t an option, however, and more trouble than it was worth, so she had dragged herself out of bed regardless, taken a handful of pills and gulped them down with two large glasses of ice cold water, then tracked down the car keys.

It didn’t matter. None of it. 

She grabbed the front of her shirt and smelled it. _Cold fish and chips wrappings_. _Musk_.

She never wore board shorts and tank tops anymore.

Her clothes rail was large hoodies, long-sleeved shirts - to be worn under her work polos, and pants: two black ones - for work, and one faded jeans. She also owned a pair of sneakers, black canvas shoes, and a couple thongs - at various stages of falling apart. All her underwear was practical and cheap, black or nude colors, and stuffed into the bedside cabinet drawer.

She owned no books that could have claimed their rightful place there. The books were back --- _at the house_. They weren't hers anymore.

The only thing she had was that board. And now it was gone. Broken beyond repair. Dead and lost to her forever.

Belle ran a hand through her hair. She stared at the tiles.

A knock on the door broke through her thoughts, and had her jump out of her skin for the second time in what felt like both a few seconds and half a century.

Belle’s heart thumped, her belly churning as she worried about who was outside her door and what they could possibly want her for at this hour.

“Mira?” Ashley knocked again, but didn’t enter. Probably because the last time she had and caught her off guard, Belle had dropped a large jar of green peas, and they had spent the next thirty minutes on their hands and knees to collect them off the floor and sweep up the broken glass.

“Maristela wants to know if you could, um, swap shifts with me next week? Friday?”

Belle fought the urge to sneer her reply. Maybe not everyone else did, but Maristela knew she only worked nights. It had been part of their deal. Belle would cover each and every shift Maristela needed her to - as long as they weren’t during the day, and she didn’t have to leave her kitchen and interact with their guests.

Maristela never asked for reasons and Belle was grateful.

Her co-workers, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. Some more nosy than others, by now everyone on the team had more or less accepted Belle’s preference for odd hours, simply assuming inherent oddness and a bad case of crippling shyness to be behind it. It suited her just fine. Shyness was as good an explanation as any, and Belle led them to believe it was her introverted nature that had her dodge whatever was on their social calendars, and give the break room a wide berth.

The break room was where she had to go next - if she wanted her car keys. To get there she would have to open that door and deal with Ashley.

Belle sighed and rubbed at her eye, then reached for the knob.

“Hi, Ashley,” she said. “She did? I must have missed her earlier - I’m sure she would have said something. Next Friday, you say?”

Ashley nodded, and Belle let her face fall.

“I’m _so_ sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t make Friday next week. I got this exam first thing Monday, and I really need the weekend to cram.” Belle lifted a shoulder and let it fall, looking as sorry as possible… _for the inconvenience_ and all that. Girls like Ashley didn’t scare her, but they could make your life difficult if they felt wronged and wanted to.

Play it dumb, but be nice about it. Grovel a little, say your ‘I’m so sorry’s’ and ‘oh my god, really’s’, and placate.

Ashley pulled a face. “Oh no, Mira. I was _counting_ on you!” She heaved a dramatic sigh.

“You could ask Will,” Belle suggested. “He’ll swap with you, I’m sure.”

“You think?”

“Totally.”

Ashley pondered her suggestion in pouty silence for a moment, but then decided she liked the idea, offering a sly, suggestive smile that made Belle’s stomach turn. 

“He’d do it for _you_ , I’m sure.”

Belle left her face blank and clueless. She wasn’t taking that bait. No way.

“He’s always around that kitchen of yours, hovering by the window and all.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed, and she lowered her voice to a girly whisper. The kind Belle hated. “I think he _likes_ you!”

She shook her head. “He’s… _nice_. That’s all.”

_Was that pity in Ashley’s eyes?_

“If you say so, Mira.” She smiled a knowing smile - even when she didn’t know the first thing about anything. Girls like Ashley never did. They only thought they did with that unwavering, insufferable confidence. “What was it you’re studying again?”

Belle almost choked on her own spit and had to clear her throat twice - which gave her time to think.

“Cooking, right?” Ashley prompted.

The word you’re looking for is _Gastronomy_ , Belle thought. Or catering trade, maybe. “Close,” she said. “First year _Nutrition and health_ at VU.”

“Same difference really.” Ashley rolled her eyes, but then smiled at her. “Your chicken parm and burgers are _so good_ , though!” She exclaimed, wide eyed. In all her time at the Sea Horse, Belle had never seen her eat more than a salad, snack on some fruit, or finish a whole bread roll by herself, exclaiming how _full_ she felt instead, and how _good_ everything was. Didn’t the others want to _try_ it? Have the rest of her fries?

“Thanks!” Belle smiled back sweetly. “You should try the avocado ‘n’ beef next time. We only put it on the menu last week, but I think it’s a keeper.”

“You bet!” Ashley beamed at her. “That sounds _delish_.” She fake-rubbed her non-existent belly. “Too bad the kitchen is closed already.”

“The kitchen closes at ten. All orders must be placed before that time,” Belle recited in a stern voice that made Ashley giggle and raise her hands in front of her in surrender.

“I know, I know!” She laughed.

Belle tried not to flinch when she touched her arm.

“Hey. Don’t worry about the shift. I’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry.”

“It’s fine. _Really_.” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, flexing her fingers, and Belle suddenly remembered her own heavy tiredness. The drugs were wearing off, her body ached all over, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and not come back out for another decade or so.

She stifled a yawn behind her hand.

“We should _both_ go and get some sleep,” Ashley said. “Coffee won’t fix whatever we got.”

She looked at her for a reaction to the punch line, but Belle missed her cue. The frustrating high-pitched ringing in her right ear was back.

 _Water damage, wave collateral_. Just like the rest of her.

Ashley cocked her head and gave her the once-over, scrutinizing her face in a way that made the heat rush to Belle’s cheeks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ashley said slowly, in a low, friendly voice. She almost sounded concerned. _Almost_. “But you look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks!” Belle forced a laugh. “It’s been a long night, you know.”

Ashley nodded. Her pocket buzzed.

“Your ride?” Belle asked. “You know what - why don’t I get the rest of your supplies … I’m headed to the back anyway. I could close up for you, if you want?”

“Really?! That would be great! Thanks! --- You’re a lifesaver!”

Ashley hugged her, and Belle wanted to scream.

Then she pulled out her phone to text back whoever was waiting for her outside.

She wanted to turn around and leave to get her stuff, but Ashley held her back by the arm.

Belle bit her cheek to keep quiet.

“Oh, Mira! I almost forgot! ---” Ashley rummaged in her other pocket, and produced a crinkled piece of paper, which she handed to Belle. “Customer left this for you. I only now remembered.”

She swooped in for air kisses, doing the fake cheek thing Belle wouldn’t be caught dead trying with anyone. It happened so fast, it didn’t leave her time to panic, so she resorted to just not moving at all until it was over, her steady smile lifted like a shield.

Ashley’s phone buzzed again.

“Gotta go! Bye!”

Belle stood and stared - at nothing in particular - until the spell broke, and she felt she could move again. She smoothed out the paper ball in her fist, and brought the note up to her eyes to read it. The words were smudged, or maybe that was her tired eyes playing tricks on her.

She frowned and fixed the first word to throw focus.

The paper read:

> Dear…  _Ms. Mirabelle French…_ ,  
>  We would like to inform you that your latest ~~order~~ /repair is now ready for collection.  
>  Please contact: _Marco_  
>  \- _Driftwood Inc_. -


End file.
